


la lumière de la fenêtre

by eliottamoureux



Category: SKAM (France)
Genre: M/M, and a bit more messy, art student/model au, in which eliott is a bit less confident, in which lucas is a bit more confident
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-03-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:26:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23252425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eliottamoureux/pseuds/eliottamoureux
Summary: Every few weeks they would begin a new unit, examining the various ways to change the environment in which a model exists. The ways that lighting can change expression, movements and motion can change shape. Every week the models are vastly different, always keeping things interesting for him and his classmates. Eliott loves to draw them, no matter the environment.Especially when they look… well, likethat.
Relationships: Eliott Demaury/Lucas Lallemant
Comments: 7
Kudos: 135





	la lumière de la fenêtre

**Author's Note:**

> hey pals! this began as [a response to a lovely ask game](https://eliottamoureux.tumblr.com/post/613057078602416129) started by [the lovely meg](https://lifeisevak.tumblr.com/), and i loved the little universe i had created so much that i wanted to return to it.
> 
> if you read the original post you'll see quite a bit of resemblance— i took the original little drabble, and built on it. it's now about double the length, and tbh i would love to continue this with more chapters at some point in the future, so stay tuned maybe!
> 
> hope you're all taking care of yourselves during the strange time, and i hope you enjoy this little fic!

The best part about life drawing class, in Eliott’s opinion, is that it’s acceptable to stare. 

That’s why he had gotten into art in the first place, in fact. more than anything, he loved looking at beautiful things. When he was little, he loved to paint flowers, his family dog, his best friends. He had gotten older, his love for art had only grown, and— frustrating as doing them justice may be— bodies became his favourite thing to draw.

This particular class is the best he’s taken so far. Not only is the professor the _exact_ sort of teacher he’d like to be someday— eccentric, sweet, and loved by all around him— but the structuring of it is really quite unique. Every few weeks they would begin a new unit, examining the various ways to change the environment in which a model exists. The ways that lighting can change expression, movements and motion can change shape. Every week the models are vastly different, always keeping things interesting for him and his classmates. Eliott loves to draw them, no matter the environment.

Especially when they look… well, like _that._

Like the boy stretched out on the platform, his tan skin tinted various colours from the lights shining down on him. This module of the class is focused on the way colours change the appearance of the body, of the face. Eliott tells himself that his desire to see what the model looks like under normal lighting is purely artistic, for the sake of comparison.

Not because he’s been looking at him for what must be nearly the whole three hour class, at this point. Not because of the gentle kind of confidence that he seems to carry himself with— Eliott could never lay naked in a room of other people, _especially_ with the grace that this boy has. _Certainly_ not because every time the boy’s eyes meet his— briefly, before they continue their lazy path around the room, watching all of the students work— it sends his limbs abuzz, a full-bodied shiver down his spine. Every so often the prof asks him to shift— sometimes slightly, other times more significantly— Eliott finds himself frustrated that he’s stuck in his seat, to capture his essence, to do his beauty justice. He wants to have the model all to himself, to pose him any way he likes, to be able to see all sides of him, all at the same time, move around him as he works.

This model had come in a few weeks ago, and Eliott had fallen behind, too distracted to work for a good chunk of the first class of the module. Now, he’s managed to gain his bearings while drawing him— for the most part, at least. At the moment, Eliott’s having trouble getting the right blend of colour for the way that the pale yellow light meets the boy’s hip, making it look like his entire lower body has been set aglow by some sort of divine force, from the dip of his waist, across his stomach, down along his hips and all the way down to his—

“Alright everyone,” Eliott nearly groans aloud as his prof comes to the center of the room. “That’s our time for today! Finish the portion you’re working on, and then pack up.” He turns back to the model. “Lucas will stick around for another fifteen minutes or so, and then he’ll be back the same time next week.” All of a sudden it’s as if the world around him falls away. _Lucas,_ his brain chants, _Lucas Lucas Lucas._ It’s fitting, he thinks— he looks like a Lucas. The fluff of his hair— a task that Eliott couldn’t _dream_ of tackling until he has the body done— the way his nose juts out _just_ so, the gentle arch of his upper lip…

“— _Eliott,_ you there?” He blinks, hard, shaking his head a bit to ground himself back in reality, before looking at his professor, stood beside him. “Are you done for today?”

“Oh— yes, of course, sorry. Just lost in thought.” Though he doesn’t reveal what about. He lets his prof think that he was zoned out, staring off into space, instead of at the beams of the setting sun, hitting Lucas’ bare skin, lighting him up, making him golden.

“All good. trust me, you’re not the only one who feels the effects of this being an evening class.” His prof chuckles, before continuing onward to his other classmates, seeing them off for the day. He doesn’t tell him that he prefers this class in the evenings, adores the west-facing windows and the way he loves looking at all of the wonderful models during golden hour. This time, he actually gets up, putting his pencils in their case, his sketchbook in its protective folder. A few minutes later he has all of his supplies safely in his bag. As he turns to leave, he has half a mind to wish Lucas a good night, to find _some_ way to talk to him. He had been so caught up in waxing poetic about the boy in his brain, that he’s now off the platform, tying his robe. Though Eliott knows that Lucas will be back, that this isn’t their last time seeing each other, his brain has instilled him with a sense of urgency. And so, just as Lucas is turning toward the bathroom to change into his clothes, Eliott catches up to him, placing a gentle hand on the top of his back to get his attention. His world stops for a moment as Lucas’ eyes meet his, and he forgets every language he’s ever learned. English goes first, then French along with it. Even the small amount of German he remembers from high school is gone, and he’s just about to panic— when the world comes rushing back, just as fast as it left.

“Have a good night, Lucas,” is what he decides on. When Lucas continues to look over at him, that same shiver from before rushes over him, and he has to put in an effort to keep his composure. The smile he receives in return is sweet, and he internally delights in the way Lucas’ eyes crinkle at the edges when he does.

“You too, ah…” it takes him embarrassingly long to realize that Lucas is implicitly asking for his name.

“Oh! Eliott, I'm Eliott.”

“Well then, you too, _Eliott._ ” he’s ready to pass out, at the sound of Lucas saying his name. Surely stronger men than him have been felled by Lucas’ charms. “See you next week?”

“Yeah— yes, you will! Of course.”

“Great.” Another smile that makes him weak in the knees. There’s something about this one, though. Before, when he was smiling for his prof, for the class, it didn’t seem to reach his eyes like this one does— like he was just doing a job, playing a part. Now, though, he seems genuinely happy, and the notion that _he’s_ the one to cause it is enough to set Eliott’s face ablaze. Eliott leaves with a quick wave before it does though, before he can do anything he’ll regret.


End file.
